All hail Dr. Ivo

No one's ever going to accuse me of choosing my sports allegiances wisely. Oh, sure, when you grow up in Cleveland, you root for Cleveland teams... unless you're a pathetic front-runner whose name rhymes with Smebron Smames and decide you like the Yankees, Bulls, and Cowboys instead! But I think this stubborn allegiance to teams that have a preternatural ability to build up your hopes only to crush them in the most painful way imaginable translates into bizarre preferences in other sports. How else to explain my ridiculous current infatuation with unlikely tennis "hero" Ivo Karlović?

Dr. Ivo (GREAT nickname!) is a gangly 6 ft. 10 inch Croatian giant with pretty limited mobility and an all-around game that's mediocre at best... but he's through to the quarterfinals at Wimbledon based on one thing: an absolutely blistering serve. It's not just the speed that kills opponents; the angles and bounce are obscene owing to his height and almost supernatural wingspan, and when his mechanics are on, as they've been over the past few weeks, his accuracy is surgical. I watched his match against Top 10-ranked French player (and uncanny Muhammad Ali lookalike) Jo-Wilfried Tsonga, and Dr. Ivo was actually blasting aces past French Muhammad Ali (FMA) on his second serve. He's that confident in his serve. Playing against Dr. Ivo right now is like playing a game of service chicken: get ready for a tiebreaker and pray you can return a couple of his bombs for a mini-break, or else you're done. That's exactly what happened to poor FMA, who was reduced to guessing which side of the court to cover, like a soccer goalie facing a penalty kick.

What's not to like about Dr. Ivo? He's got a great nickname. His serve is the biggest weapon in all of tennis. He stutters (yes, you read that correctly: he stutters!). He looks even more drawn in and skeletal than Ivan Lendl, one of my all-time faves. And as if all that weren't enough, his post-victory celebration routine is delightful, especially when it's performed in front of thousands of shocked British matrons. Here's the final-set tiebreak against FMA, including Dr. Ivo's little Ron Jeremy victory dance, and with some patriotically biased, exuberant commentary courtesy of the Croatian Sports Network:

Fun with Facebook

I've been on Facebook for a few months now, thanks to a friend who moved to another state and insisted I sign on so we could stay in touch. At first, I didn't think too much of it and hardly ever checked my profile or inbox, until my niece Sophie advised me that many of my relatives, including some from Uruguay, wanted to become "Friends." Lo and behold, Facebook has turned out to be a pretty convenient way to maintain contact with not just far-off friends and relatives, but also with local yokels. Sure, exchanging Facebook shouts with your officemate as you're literally sitting in the same room is somewhat gay... but still fun, especially when we're discussing our loser boss and how disgustingly pungent his breath and B.O. are, all while he's also in the room!

There are, of course, several drawbacks to internet social networks. One of my many pet peeves with Facebook is the "like" button. There ought to be a "don't like" button to go with this. Friend X posted a link to his awesome new website? I "like" this. Friend Y posted a photo of his two-year-old daughter clad in a hat and binoculars and nothing else? Since I'm not a Catholic priest, I "don't like" this! Now, if it had been a similar photo of his bra-burning wife... nah, she's like a sister to me, and since I'm not from Kentucky, I still "don't like" this. Here are a few more Facebook "like" and "don't like" shenanigans:

Applications / Games:

Like: I love birthdays but suck at remembering dates, so the Birthday Calendar application is an absolute Godsend. The movie rating app is pretty cool too, especially when you compare your ratings with those of your friends.

Don't Like: Just about everything else. No, I will not join your "family" in Mob Wars. No, I will not buy you a Margarita using Drink Buddies (what the hell is that, anyway???). No, I will not play Pet Society with you. Please go away.

Groups / Causes:

Like: I love to hate Turks. They are a repugnant, greasy, foul-smelling, and amoral breed whose national pastime is forced sodomy. Joining a "Turkey sucks!" group, gleefully bashing the murderous bastards, and then laughing at their pathetically incoherent replies is nothing short of delightful. I also like the sports team groups.

Don't Like: Just about everything else. (I sense a running theme!) No, I will not join the "Britney is the best!" group. No, I will not donate to the "Save the Michael Vick dogs" cause. I don't fucking care. Please go away.

Friends:

Like: Reconnecting with distant family and friends... just too cool for words.

Don't Like: I feel rude for doing this, but if I don't know you, I'm not accepting your friend request. I know it's a social network, and regular rules might not apply, but I can't help being paranoid any more than I can help the fact that my hair is black. If I've never met you, please go away.

Comments / Tags:

Like: In case you couldn't tell, I love a snarky comment, especially when I'm the one firing away. Adding snide, derisive remarks to friends' photos or status updates is one of life's greatest joys. The photo tagging gimmick is also terrific -- I've been tagged as a bathroom sink (I'm a compulsive hand-washer) and as a congregation of worms (still trying to figure that one out). Good times!

Don't Like: Surprisingly, not too many objections here. I may not reply to every comment, or comment on every item, but, thankfully, none of my cronies are needy, so no worries or recriminations here.

Status / What Are You Doing Now?:

Like: I like quick updates along the lines of "Going on vacation" or "Just got engaged!" I also like fun / goofy takes on this. Months ago, a few of us were on a crazy Austrian Death Machine trip, and status updates along the lines of "DD is a war machine" or "JNA just came up with a sweet song title" just added to the hi-jinks.

Don't Like: People using this forum for über-creepy public overshares. "Friend Z is swearing off men forever. I met a great guy at the club last night, and we exchanged numbers, but when I tried to call him, the number was out of service. What is it about me that draws me to these cruel betrayers? I can't take it any more. Aren't there any good guys out there? And to my guy friends, why do you guys act like this? I'm so sick of you all! J/K! But for real, I am pledging a life of celibacy until I find a good guy, and if, in the meantime, my vajeen dries up like a pile of sawdust in the Sahara, then so be it. LOL!" Yikes.

All in all, Facebook has turned out to be a pretty pleasant surprise. Now, if I could just stop people from trying to drag me into other social networks...

A scatological anniversary

Today (June 11) marks the anniversary of France's greatest contribution to humankind. No, I'm not talking about the constitutional separation of religion and government, nor the Universal Declaration of Human Rights, nor France's myriad philosophical, artistic, gastronomical, nor sartorial gifts to the world. On this day in 1857, Joseph Pujol, aka "Le Pétomane" (translated as fart maniac or "fartiste"), was born in Marseille. This gent was a baker by profession, but he had the remarkable talent of being able to fart at will. He actually developed a stage routine where he played a type of flute with his anus ("La Marseilleise" was, of course, a show-stopper), farted to blow out candles stationed several yards away, and even re-created animal sounds and other assorted noises with his "gift." His act was successful enough to warrant a two-year run at the famous Moulin Rouge, and allowed him to eventually found his own traveling show. He eventually retired to his bakery, but not before establishing a legacy that lives on to this glorious day.

Happy birthday, Monsieur "Poo-hole" !!!!!!

Obsessive-compulsive behaviour

It's neither funny nor fun, even though that's how it's portrayed in the popular media. Friends who've witnessed my obsessive-compulsive quirks think they're a hoot, and delight in telling me I remind them of that annoying twit Monk, or, even worse, that buffoonish and grotesque Jack Nicholson character in "As Good As It Gets." Well, if OCD is so bloody wonderful and mainstream, why isn't there more help for those of us who are at its mercy? I don't mean better living through chemistry, although Zoloft seems to help, albeit with egregious and oftentimes hilarious side-effects (I once drove halfway to work before I noticed I'd forgotten to wear pants). By help, I mean having products tailored to OCD geeks. For example, those little containers of anti-bacterial gel are fantastic; no matter where I am or what the circumstances, my hands are guaranteed to be germ-free. We need more products like that!!! It seems like it was scant weeks ago that I prepared a new set of socks, although it was almost two years ago. Why aren't there pre-labeled socks out there? Every time I go through the prep routine, I worry that I'm not applying equal marker coverage to each sock, that the numbers are bigger on some pairs than others, that the positioning of the numbers is uneven from pair to pair, etc. NOT GOOD!!!

I'm convinced that there's an enormous amount of money to be made by tailoring to me and my fellow crazies. Some things, like the compulsion to step over every "threshold" (cracks, doorways, first & last stair steps, etc.) with my right foot, or insisting on multiples of 13 for any meaningful transaction involving numbers, just can't be helped by OCD-friendly products. But pre-labeled socks, numbered boxers, colour-separated candies (you wouldn't believe how much more pleasant the candy-eating experience is for me once I've separated my M&Ms, Skittles, Nerds, Jelly Bellies, etc. by colour)... having these would be rapture! And since we have organic stores, why not OCD-friendly stores where the aisles, products, and brands are arranged in alphabetical order? And those are just the tip of the iceberg. But no... instead of putting things in the correct, well-organized order, the happy-go-lucky, slovenly, know-nothing idiot masses not only refuse to share this burden, but actually exacerbate it with their sloppy, uncaring ways. Filthy bastards.

Static-X at Revolution Live

Last month, I caught the second date of the Sno-Core extravaganza at Revolution Live in Fort Lauderdale. I'm not overly fond of seeing rock concerts in tiny, overcrowded venues -- too many tiny club concert experiences from my teenage years, including one where I got so claustrophobic and nauseated from the stench of weed and/or cloves, that I almost passed out and ended up missing the show -- but I couldn't forgo the chance to see Static-X doing their "Disco from Hell" routine.

The opening band was a local one by the name of Venejer, and they were OK. The most memorable thing about them was the lead singer's Bulletboys-like habit of bugging out his eyes while hitting his high notes. Venejer wasn't supposed to be in the line-up, but had to step in because the singer from Saliva had some sort of emergency surgery (an appendectomy, if memory serves). So, we got Bug-Eyes McGee instead of "Click, click, boom." Sounds like a pretty good trade-off, as I'm not a Saliva fan. I can't say the same for the red-headed cougar who hit on my friend Greg (aka Jamaican Jesus) while expressing her disappointment that Saliva wouldn't be performing that day, because, according to her, she had brought her daughter (!!!) to the show specifically so they could see Saliva. Yikes.

The second band, called The Flood, was an unexpected bonus, in that they were an unapologetic Tool clone. The singer sported what Greg described as "the world's first artificially receded hairline" and wanted to be Maynard James Keenan so badly that I ended up rechristening the band A Perfect Tool. A Perfect Tool might not have won any points for originality, but Tool-worship aside, they were very, very good. I hope they'll find success.

The third band, Burn Halo, tried really hard, but didn't make it for me. If The Flood wanted to be Tool, Burn Halo wanted to be Guns'n'Roses. They brought tons of zeal and energy, but little in the way of musicality. Lots of fancy guitar work and screaming, but a bit boring for my taste. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity of sound-checks, falling props, and false starts, Static-X took the stage.

They put on a hell of a show, and their set list was a really well-balanced representation of their body of work. I realize they've been around for 15+ years, but I find it hard to believe... singer Wayne Static does so much screaming, it's a miracle his voice hasn't given out yet. It's also worth noting that Wayne married a former porno movie "star," and she brought the band drinks a few times during the performance, wearing nothing but panties and pasties. I don't know whether it was a combination of the alcohol, the excitement of kicking off a tour in support of their new album, or a very happy mixture of both, but Static-X genuinely seemed to be having as good a time as the appreciative audience, evidenced by the constant goofy banter between Wayne Static and bassist Tony Campos:

Wayne: We're gonna play you a song from our new album!
Tony: Should they guess which song?
Wayne: Sure, why not? Guess which song from our new album we're gonna play?
Drunken audience [knowing perfectly well that it's their new single]: Stingwray!!!!!!!!
Wayne: Wow! These guys know their stuff!
Tony [pointing to some random dude in the audience]: I think this guy was at the show last night and gave everyone the answer!
Wayne: Hah hah hah hah!!!
Tony: Hah hah hah hah!!!
[End goofy banter]

But the funniest moment of the night had to be Wayne's rambling ending address, in which he updated everyone on Saliva's return, thanked The Flood and Burn Halo, and mentioned "the first band" and how he could hear them from backstage and they were really good but he couldn't remember their name. A stagehand kept yelling "Venejer" in Tony's ear, and he'd relay a discombobulated version of it to an increasingly tickled Wayne:

Stagehand: Venejer!
Tony: What? Venison?
Wayne: What's that?
Stagehand: Venejer!
Tony: Vegemite?
Wayne: Huh?
Stagehand: Venejer!
Tony: Vajener?
Wayne: What? Vaginal? Are you fucking kidding?
Tony: Vajener!
Wayne: Well, thanks to Vagina, or whatever the fuck, for stepping in for Saliva!!!
Tony and Wayne: Hah hah hah hah!!!
Venejer [backstage]: We're gonna have to change our fucking name!

Okay, I'm only guessing about Venejer deciding to change their name, but after that hilarious debacle, it wouldn't be a bad idea.

Here's a videoclip of Static-X tearing it up with "Dirthouse" -- 'twas a great show!

The Gang That Couldn't Pitch Straight

There are many reasons why the Indians find themselves in last place more than one month into the season.

The offense is sporadic and bumbling -- they either strike out or hit homers. The team leader in RBIs (DeRosa) is batting in the low .200s, the leadoff hitter (Sizemore) leads the team in homeruns, our most powerful hitter (Hafner) is on the DL after it looked like he was FINALLY getting back into hitting shape, our second most powerful hitter (Peralta) is in a woeful season-long slump, and the team's overall fundamental approach to hitting is laughable; I can practically guarantee that no other team can match the Tribe's propensity to strand guys who get on second with none out or third with one out or less.

The defense is astoundingly poor, due in no small part to management's insistence on slapping together an alignment eerily reminiscent of a patchwork quilt put together by a blind guy. At any given time, the Tribe will field a catcher at first base, a shortstop at second, a third baseman at short, a DH at third, and a utility infielder in left. It's a miracle they don't throw out the one-armed man from The Fugitive (let's not forget that whole saga was inspired by a real-life murder that took place in Cleveland) in right field.

The starting pitching is similar to the hitting, as epitomized by Lee, Pavano, and even Laffey's outings: they either produce what I call high-quality outings, where they go 7+ innings while giving up two or less runs, or they get shelled early. Carmona's sinker isn't sinking, and Reyes has been a huge disappointment.

The situational managing has also been atrocious. I can't remember the last time the team manufactured a run, executed a successful hit-and-run (and some of the guys on the team can both hit AND run -- wake up, Wedge!), or even called for a timely pitch-out. What about pitching substutions? I'm so glad you asked, since this leads us to...

The Bullpen From Hell. This unit is, by far, the biggest reason for the Tribe's sorry showing thus far. How bad is the current crop of "relievers"? I'm looking back on the days of Ernie Camacho, Dave Otto, and Scott Scudder with something approaching nostalgia. It's hard to believe that the bullpen actually got worse once the team finally got rid of the human grease fire known as Joe Borowski... but they did. After yesterday afternoon's collapse, where The Gang That Couldn't Pitch Straight gave up a hard-fought lead for what seemps like the fiftieth time this year (and this estimate might not be too far off, as they give up leads multiple times a game), the bullpen's collective ERA is a ghastly 6.50, and they lead the league in blown saves by a wide margin. Even with the mediocre starting pitching, the Tribe's hit-or-miss offense has managed to keep them in games and/or give them the lead numerous times, only to have The Bullpen From Hell give it back without recording nary an out. Up until recently, the only decent relievers on the roster were two dudes named "Sipp" and "Chulk," and they both managed to catch the pitching equivalent of the Swine Flu yesterday, combining to produce a seven-run Toronto inning that negated some clutch-hitting heroics that had resulted in the Tribe taking the lead the previous half-inning. Relievers are supposed to put out fires, not set them and then exacerbate them. I don't know whether there are any viable options in our minor league system... but at this point, anyone not named Rafael Perez, Rafael Betancourt, Jensen Lewis, Kerry Wood, "Sipp," or "Chulk" is a viable option.

A bullpen this incendiary deserves a moniker. Here are some options:

• Pyroclastic Flow

• Arson, Incorporated

• Ball Four

• The Napalm Gang

• The Opposing Hitters' Stimulus Plan

• Chemical Accelerant

• Hanging Slider

• The Molotov Cocktail

• Meatball Buffet

• Ulcer Catalyst

• The Kerosene Klan

Great start

The Cavs started their 2K9 playoff run by dominating an aging, completely overwhelmed Pistons team, dumping them 4-0 and winning every game by a double-digit margin. With the possible exception of Game 3, in which the Pistons actually played great defense and the Cavs' back-court shot roughly 0.0% from the field, the Cavs were in complete control, so much so that not even their most pessimistic, woe-is-me, just waiting for the other shoe to drop fan (read: yours truly) can find fault with the team's performance. Sure, I'll be on the verge of nervously puking my brains out come the next round, especially if the Heat is our opponent; Wade is a terrific player, and is perfectly capable of single-handedly carrying his woeful supporting cast, not to mention overcoming the inexperience and overall ineptitude of the Heat's Coach Kumar. Still, if the Cavs maintain their focus and continue with their relentless hustle and suffocating defense, I like their chances.

It would be especially sweet to see this current line-up go all the way (PLEASE, GOD!!!), considering not just their talent but also their off-the-charts chemistry and likeability. They've definitely joined the short list of my all-time fave Cleveland teams, right there with the '95 Indians (minus Albert Belle, of course) and '86 Browns (Dixon & Minnifield, who unknonwingly co-created the Dawg Pound by barking at each other after pass break-ups or big tackles, and Bernie's breakout season). Bron-Bron and his choreographed pre-game team poses, the insane Mo Williams and his running floater, which he's christened The Mo-Flo, Big Z and his all-bald coiffure that makes him look like a seven-foot-three Lithuanian Nosferatu, Sideshow Andy, Delonte's gibberish syntax/accent, the return of Joe Smith, Coach Brown's colour-coordinated old-lady glasses... and this awesome spoof commercial to get the team and the fans pumped up for the playoffs:



Go Cavs !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!